


snow.

by volna (seductrce)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Basically this is post everything (aka post season 8), Bisexual Jon Snow, But also, Fluff, He also needs a hug, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow Comes Back Wrong, M/M, Mentions of Stark kids, POV Jon Snow, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Post-Canon, Strong Language, THERES CONFLICT AND WE DEAL WITH IT, Tormund is harsh ok but only because Jon deserves happiness more than lies, anti jon/dany btw we HATE, at the end, but who doesnt lol, jon loves his siblings and his man and thats bout it, pls read the notes for more info
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 17:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18815863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seductrce/pseuds/volna
Summary: Jon has a question and Tormund all the answers;aka Jon struggles with his identity and so does Tormund;aka everyone has ptsd but we try to be semi-healthy about it with sincere conversations and hugs and being good to each other.





	snow.

**Author's Note:**

> this is way too over the top but imagine me able to “write” anything else lol I’m useless,,,
> 
> idek how this whole set-up came to be, all i wanted was some conflict stemming from how much they care about each other and now this MESS ! 
> 
> anyway, we are operating on the following premises:
> 
> 1) im generally more book-bound in my understanding of this world but i havent read the books in years wheras ive JUST watched the show so many a thing - including set design, casting and recent developments - are heavily influenced by the show, 
> 
> 2) ive watched up until the season 7 finale so thats all i really know,
> 
> 3) i do know however - spoilers - that jon learns who he really is in 8.01 (tho i dont know how he takes it lol) and that tormund is fine as of 8.05 (AND BETTER STAYS THAT WAY), ergo:
> 
> 4) we assume that the war is over, humanity won, both jon and tormund are alive (so are dany and the stark kids), nobody knows exactly whats gonna be happening next but many semi-important people are making their way north to get a look at aegon targaryen ii, nightking slayer [ASSUMPTION ON MY PART BUT IT FITS HIM DOESNT IT] and possible future regent (pls no tho).
> 
> thats it, those are the premises. please be aware i have never in my fucking LIFE planned on writing anything on asoiaf so like. this might be terrible, we just dont knOW!  
> now put on some music that makes you believe in endless winters and feel like snow is falling outside, thanks.

Jon hadn’t noticed it until he did - hadn’t paid attention to it maybe or pushed it aside for matters that’d seemed more pressing in the moment. Nowadays, that meant every single thing that was not his personal life. Then again, had his personal life _ever_ been a priority? Surely not. The sad truth was this: Jon was used to it.

What did sacrificing happiness with the person you loved really matter in the face of the greater good, aye?

Tormund was entering his chambers in uncharacteristic fashion; it wasn’t unusual for Jon - Aegon? fuck if he knew - to call Tormund to his private rooms rather than the ones he used for official business and strategizing. The man had grown from kind-of-captor to one of Jon’s best friends in a scary fast time, all things considered, and everything they’d gone through together - every instance of bonding and betrayal and renewed trust, of drink and fire, thought and battle shared, had served to meld them together in a way Jon had only known a few times in life. With Sam and Edd now, to some extent, but mostly with Robb, pure and easy back when there’s been no miles nor deaths between them - in those days of summer’s sweet kiss upon their youthful brows and twin curly heads, one gleaming tar-black, the other - fiery like polished copper. Too unappreciated then. Too often missed now.

The thought of his brother - and Jon refused to call him anything else, refused to let anyone take his siblings from him - stung like the burn of age-heavy liqueur settling behind his ribs. He didn’t stop to dwell on it. The pain of loss and grief was too familiar to pay it any mind, surfacing at oddest hour. Instead, he kept his hungry eyes on the door croaking open, an undefined need pulling at his heartstrings.

Tormund didn’t saunter in as he usually did, fur-covered and gigantic and _wild_ , with half a grin hidden in the untrimmed beard and a light shining in his always brilliant eyes, but actually knocked - a first if Jon remembered correctly - and stuck his head around the door with a grave expression, entering only after Jon beckoned him inside with a wave of his hand.

“Tormund.”

Tormund grunted in acknowledgement and settled in the unoccupied chair by the desk Jon was sitting behind, pulling his mud-caked boots up upon the surface, loosely crossed at the ankles. Jon suppressed a grin. There was Giantsbane, alright - at least some of him.

“What’d’ya want with me, boy?”

Arms crossed over his broad chest, Tormund sat leaned back, gazing at a point just above Jon’s left ear. His bit-back amusement vanished, replaced once more by the onset of true worry. Something was clearly wrong and he had a feeling what he was about to ask had one thing or other to do with it. Instead of letting his concern show, Jon tried an easy expression, his most conversational tone.

“I wanted to ask you something. About you and me.”

Tormund’s gaze finally snapped left to catch Jon’s. He pulled his boots to the ground in favor of leaning forward in his seat - eyes piercing, stinging with an unfamiliar cold. Sharp, like a slap to the face.

“Yeah? Don’t say you finally grew tired of me hangin’ about this… castle of yours,” he said, waving a lazy hand in a semi circle - not even really trying. “Mylord,” he added, mockery dripping off the respectful term, making it sound like the free folk slur that it was.

Hearing it like this, masking some ache he was as ever late to address, pushed an ice knife into Jon’s chest and he absentmindedly knead at the spot where Olly’s dagger had twisted into his heart. Tormund’s gaze followed the movement; quietly, worry and shame rolled over his face in a slow wave.

Jon remembered how fascinated he had been with Tormund ever since they’d first met in Mance’s tent, mistaking him for King - already then drawn to the way emotion pearled across his features. He wouldn’t even know how to deceive - not beyond a mischievous grin and some far-fetched story about fucking an elk, told like it’d happened to amuse his men; not the way the courtlings of the south were trained all their lives to do. Their understanding of survival was entirely different from the terrors Tormund’s kind had to live through.  
Then again, Jon had no idea how Sansa had managed to stay alive through her time at Cersei Lannister’s side, or Littlefinger's. He himself would have ended up on the chopping block right next to her father in no time at all.

_Starks don’t belong in the South._

“I’m sorry,” Tormund huffed then, cutting away at the silence, eyes still lingering on Jon’s stabbed heart. “I…”  
He bit the sentence off and pulled himself up straight in his seat, hands dangling between his spread legs.

“Ask then, Snow. What is it?”

Jon had meant to wait for it, whatever Tormund had such problems with, sure he would spell it out clear enough if given the chance. It was one of Tormund’s best qualities, that raw honesty of his. He never held back on what he had to say, brutal or gentle.

_I should have thrown you from the top of the wall, boy._

Tormund’s mouth was something Jon trusted in, so to see him like this - lost for words and biting back on thought - no. It wasn’t right. And it had been like this for some time now, had it not? Ever since…

“I wanted to ask… why d’you still call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Snow.”

Tormund’s bushy red brows drew together, his jaw tensed. You could almost see his teeth grinding.

“Wha’d’you mean?”

Jon sighed, getting up to step near the fire burning in its hearth and lean both palms against the mantle. The flames heated his face to a point of discomfort; another one of those things that had changed after he’d come back from the… from the other side. Who would have thought he’d ever think a fire too hot on his skin. A fine dragon’s son he made; nephew to the Unburnt who stepped out of flame as if it were a bath.

He huffed out a bitter laugh, mind reeling once more with the truth, and tried to steady his breathing before it could slip from him and slide straight into shaking limbs and constricted lungs. Keeping composure in the face of it all - easier said than done.  
It seemed so wrong, so false, to think that he should be… a prince’s son… _his_ son of them all… he didn’t feel it, didn’t feel anything other than the bastard of Winterfell, and yet; he’d always known, somewhere deep down, that there was a secret hidden in his marrow no one ever cared to reveal to him.

He’d talked with Bran about this for hours on end, understood now why his father - uncle? oh, for Gods’ sake - hadn’t said a word about it when he’d had all the chances in the world. Why it was necessary to keep this secret just that. Why he didn’t find out until after what had happened on that ship to White Harbor, after he’d unknowingly fulfilled family tradition. He hated thinking of it now, being sure as winter’s arrival that this wasn’t what either set of parents would have wanted for him. It wasn’t what he’d wanted for himself and now - now they had to live with it.

He sighed again, but didn’t turn to look into Tormund’s eyes. “‘Snow’. To everyone else I’m ‘Mylord’, aye? I’m ‘Your Grace’ to the boot-lickers and ‘Targaryen’ to the Lannister-fuckers; I’m ‘Sand’ for the Dornish and even ‘Stark’ now, sometimes - ‘Lyanna’s boy’ even though there’s barely anyone left alive who remembers her. But everyone has stopped calling me ‘Snow’. Everyone but you. Why’s that?”

Tormund remained silent and Jon finally turned back to face him, one arm still leaning against the mantlepiece. “Don’t misunderstand, I’m not asking why you’re not ‘mylording’ me - you never have and you won’t ever have to.” Half a smile died on his lips when no reaction met him halfway.  
“It’s just… I’m not a Snow any way you turn it. So why?”

Tormund’s face was still as a lake on a windless day, eyes pinned to Jon’s shoulder, and Jon got almost scared for a second. What if there was no reason to it? What if Tormund simply got so used to it he felt it a bother to change it up? What were Westerosi customs to a man of the free folk? But something in Tormund’s hard expression made him reconsider. It wasn’t that simple and Jon’d known it, sensed it whenever they’d seen each other lately - that odd uncomfortable tension, the way Tormund didn’t quite meet his gaze.

With a sudden tug like a puppet doll ripped from its place Tormund got up, the movement violent enough to send his seat rattling and ultimately clattering back first to the wooden floor. Tormund paid it no mind and stepped over it towards the window in three quick strides. Waning, a dying winter day’s light was filtering in, clouds swallowing most of it whole. Though a mere two hours past midday, it was dark enough already for the flames to be needed for more than just heating. Tormund was holding onto the sill with knuckles tight like iron; Jon could barely see them from behind his broad back, but he knew this stance. Rage, battled down.

“You notice the strangest things, boy. What’s it matter what I call you?”

Before Jon could answer, even exhale his held breath, Tormund continued, raw anger bleeding through his voice drop by drop; still more unusual, for he roared when he felt like it. It made Jon wonder how many times Tormund had wanted to smash someone’s face in since he came here - and how many times he had not been allowed to.

“All those southern lords… comin’ here one by one, steppin’ before you and promisin’ you their loyalty… like they ever intend to keep it! Loyalty ain’t somethin’ they understand - just look at those damn traitors, bastards slayin’ your brother like a baby doe on the hunt. Men of the North! Ha!”

Tormund spit off his shoulder in disgust, face hidden from view.

“They’re not… they don’t know you. Targaryen, my ass. Ye think you belong with that white-haired girl y’all worship as Queen? Your father may’ve been the Mad King’s son, but you sure as fuck ain’t no dragon lord, boy.”

There was bitterness in Tormund’s words, hostility as he’d rarely heard from him before, but it wasn’t directed at Jon.

“I am, though,” he said into the pause - gently, trying to convince himself as much as Tormund. “Rhaegar Targaryen was my father. I’m a Targaryen, just as Daenerys is one. I know it sounds mad, but-”

Tormund turned back to him, stopping halfway, an in between thing born from the obvious conflict brooding inside of him. His eyes went wide with the incredulous passion of his next words, finally not falling short of his terrifying boom.

“MAD? It doesn’t sound mad, Gods be damned! You just don’t _belong_ with them! You know it and I know it. In the south?” he gesticulated, arm reaching around as if to encompass all of Westeros. “On that wet rock you told me ‘bout, or maybe that stinkin’ place where the people sleep in their own shit? King’s Landing, my ass! What’re ye gonna be doin’ down there? Dinin’ with those fine lords and charmin’ their ladies?”

Tormund scoffed in his rough way, a humorless parody of laughter - like he’d seen enough of that already to last him a lifetime.

“You’d rather sit in the cold beyond the damned wall and share your ale with me until our _fuckin’_ balls freeze off! That life, those things everyone keeps saying you’ll have to do… It’s not you. Ye wanna know why I call you Snow?”

Jon nodded, anticipation burning in his gut. Not a word worth of lies had been spoken, and the feeling of being _known_ flooded him with a hunger for more, with needing to be told everything he knew he couldn’t have, couldn’t quite admit to even wanting, not outside this room.

“I don’t give a goat’s ass what you’ll call yourself but where I come from, names have meanings - and I sure as fuck won’t take part in changin’ you into someone you aren’t.”

The dull orange flames danced alongside their grey shadow twins upon Tormund’s face, but his gaze burned hotter still, blazing with agitation.

“You _are_ snow, cold and hard as ice when need be, but melting soft and sweet at touch; everlasting where our Gods’ bones lie. You’re life as you are death - You’re the north more than most any Southerner I’ve ever met.”

He stuck his thumb over his shoulder to point out the window, and then jabbed his thick forefinger in Jon’s direction.

“You dung-headed twat! Your father’s not who fucked you into existence, your father’s who raised you into a man! I’ll call you Stark before I ever speak of you with that dragon prick’s name, pardon my milk-hole. It’s not _you_ , Snow. Do you understand? You’re not like them. Ye never were and after all we’ve been through, you never fuckin’ will be.”

He exhaled as he turned back around, shoulders heaving, and stared out at the thick-flaked flurry tumbling outside - a constant these days, reminder that winter had just arrived and didn’t mean to leave quite yet; that the worst would not be followed by anything easy. Tormund’s breath came in ragged rattles, like he’d run a mile and a half. Jon didn’t know what to say; so they stood there, one by the crackling fire and one by the falling snow, until Tormund spoke again, voice vacant.

“You remember that day, on the island by the arrow-headed mountain? That day you almost died on me again?”

There was no accusation in his words, only pain buried deep. Jon nodded once more, and belatedly realized Tormund couldn’t see it. “Sure,” he whispered, not recognizing his own hoarse voice.  
Truth was, he scarcely recalled much of it at all - of the almost dying part, at least. Nothing but his vision turning white to black to white, and the icy water soaking every bit of life out of him.  
He didn’t know how he’d made it out of that water, or back to his feet. He didn’t know how he’d managed to climb uncle Benjen’s horse. The cold had a knack that way, clawing away at your brain until the thought of it was the only thing left nestling inside, merciless, singular, usurping your soul.

To this day Jon woke from nightmares on the regular, of drowning - in waters and wights alike, of dying, vivid as those of any time he’d stood face to face with the Nightking. He’d known he wasn’t the only one.

“It haunts me. Sittin’ on that dragon back watchin’ ye sink, tellin’ myself I wouldn’t be fast enough to get you even if I tried - my own fuckin’ fear keeping my legs from hurryin’ to _save_ you because it seemed that impossible, that inevitable… because I was that fuckin’… I can’t live with myself after that. Every time I look at you I’m reminded of how ye sank below surface and I didn’t do anythin’ to pull you out of there. How I ran instead, like a scared dog. How I failed you.”

Tormund shook his head and Jon saw the shine of tear streaks glittering on his now barely visible cheek.

“It’s not my place to tell ye who you are, boy. But I can tell you what I think of you. I can tell you that I’ve never met a man more Gods’ damned brave or stubborn or _good_ than your hard-headed ass. That I’ve never thought I’d ever be this tempted to swear my life ‘n’ blade to another man.”

Tormund’s voice grew softer with every word he spoke, sincerity overflowing from within.

“I’m of the free folk, Jon Snow. We don’t bend the knee, but the Gods know I would follow you straight into the ass-crack dark pits of the long night if we hadn’t already been there together.”

Jon exhaled slowly, and let the air settle between them, blinking the sting of salt from his eyes. As the reasons for Tormund’s anger seeped into his understanding, he stepped closer, one foot at a time - audibly, so Tormund had time to gather composure if he so wished; he wasn’t surprised however, to see the tears still falling silently down Tormund’s face, disappearing in his damp beard. It wasn’t the first time they’d cried in front of each other - it wouldn’t be the last either. _Cryin’ is something the south teaches you_ , Tormund had once told Jon, surrounded by terror and air so cold it coated your lashes in ice, _just as pissin’ more often than necessary_. It felt like half a lifetime ago.

Jon put a hand to Tormund’s cheek when he eventually turned to face him, gently wiping at the tears with his thumb, smoothing them into pale skin. There was a lump in his throat but he made himself speak around it, swallow the rising waters down, rasp the words out.

“I forgive you. D’you forgive me?”

Confusion rose in Tormund’s drying eyes; his brows furrowed with it.

“For sending you to Eastwatch. For leaving you alone up there, knowing they were coming. For taking so long. For failing you and your people so many times, when I promised the Night’s Watch would protect you. For asking what I’ve asked of you. Do you forgive me?”

Tormund stared at him, mouth coming slack, then whispered “There’s nothin’ to forgive.”

“There is,” Jon said. “You know there is. Do you?”

Something changed in Tormund’s expression, an understanding of sorts clearing the pained confusion into conscious resolve.

“I do.”

“Good.” Jon let himself smile, a tiny one that usually managed a specific magic. And there it was this time too, a corresponding lift of mouth corners on Tormund’s face.

It was the easiest thing in the world to pull him in then, closer than close, and let himself be hugged against Tormund's mighty body, melding firm against it, hiding in the fur folds - becoming one whole. Tormund’s beard scratched at the side of his neck, breath hot against the skin of it, and Jon felt warmth sink into his bones no fire could ever place there. Comfort, the true essence of it. Home.

“I know where you’re coming from, you know?” he said, quiet murmurs into Tormund's own neck. “I might have Targaryen blood in me, but I’m a Stark; I’ve always been a man of the North. I was raised at Winterfell, bastard or not, became a brother still half a child - what was I, fifteen? Younger?”

“The north’s in your blood, Jon Snow.”

“Aye. And more than that. It’s who I am. You’re right about that, y’know? I couldn’t stand King’s Landing. Why d’you think I let them all come up to Winterfell?”

Tormund barked a laugh far too loud into his neck and pulled back a little to look into Jon’s face, gaze warmed through with care and devotion. One of his hands came up to run a thumb across Jon’s cheekbone and comb his hair back gently. His coarse fingers tangled in the grown out strands, a welcome tug of reprieve. Jon pretended not to be leaning into the touch, or finding solace in Tormund’s gruff voice. The honest truth was this: Jon was real bad at pretending.

“My little crow…”

Warmth. Warmth, warmth, warmth. All the way to his finger tips.

“I don’t plan on leaving this place, Tormund. I won’t be leaving you down here all alone.”

Tormund’s face grew comically sober at that.

“I’d slit my throat at the third lords ‘n’ ladies meetin’ I’d have to sit through without yer pretty face showin’ so I’d say that’s reasonable.”

“Always so damn dramatic…”

Jon rolled his eyes, laughing in mock desperation. It was remarkable how Tormund reminded him of Arya this way, ever ready to spill blood for the cause. But he’d always known his sister was made of weirwood, grown lean and pointed and sharp as winter wind.

“I’m fully serious, boy. Don’t ever leave me sitting’ through one of those again by myself. I don’t care if I’m the representative for all those dog-fuckers out there ‘n have to ‘weigh in on decisions’ or whatever the fuck it is you Southerners do when there’s no proper war to be fought. By the Gods, there’s nothing more dull than your lordly meetins.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You better. Or I’ll end up stealin’ you away permanently and they can spend the rest of time searchin’ for ya in the big white mountains. Nobody’s gonn’ find us where I’d take ye.”

Tormund let his brows wiggle as only he could, grin turning a playfully wanton chuckle, and Jon had to stop a wistful sigh from escaping him, lest it would give away how badly he wanted just that. Stolen. Taken care of. Spend his days hunting rabbits, clashing swords in the snow and fucking by the fire - having nothing to take care of, nobody to see. Him, and Tormund, and the occasional visit to Winterfell.

And then, because Jon loved to cause his own suffering, his gaze slipped and landed on Tormund's mouth. He looked away immediately. Why tempt himself with things he couldn’t have? Useless.

“Oi.”

Tormund pushed Jon’s chin up a little, catching his eye. “You know I don’t expect goat’s ass from you. We talked about this.”

Jon knew. He knew so bloody, bloody well. All the more reason for wishful thinking.  
“I don’t…”

“Yeah?”

Jon’s smile turned crooked, he could feel it in the curve of his mouth, in the way his chest ached with longing.  
“I don’t wanna break my own heart. Not again. Not like this, when I already…”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“Tell me, still.”

He carved the words from inside himself one by one, carefully, a whisper resounding heavy with its weight.  
“Not when I already love you.”

Tormund grinned more brightly then, teeth showing, all residual anger smoothed from his handsome features. He’d known, but he’d never heard it plainly like that.

“Maybe your dragon blood shows by how much you like the fire-kissed, Snow.”

He was grinning, but his eyes turned sad, memories lapping at their ankles like rising waves. They both missed Ygritte. So fucking terribly. Sometimes, Jon wondered what things could’ve been like - in a different turn of fate, in another life; each of them by his side, his love spread out between them like sunrays over sea waters, nothing worse to deal with but endless stretches of mild summer winters. Most times, he tried to forget.

“Her and you... both one of a kind, Giantsbane.”

“She loved you, Snow. I told ya. Enough to kill you. Enough to not kill you.”

“And you?”

Tormund stared at him for a while, and that same raw honesty painted a picture across his face, vivid and tender with emotion. Jon realized how lucky he was, getting to see it unabashed like this, in clearest, most sophisticated color. It knit his chest tight with ache before a single word had escaped Tormund.

“I love you, Snow. I told ya, how many times did I tell ya? Enough to live ‘n’ die for you - enough to try and pretend I don’t hate every one of those damned lordly decisions of yours that pulls you away from where you belong.”

Tormund’s hand ceased the constant brushing of Jon’s hair, a caress so habitual to them it melted into the hug like it was part of it, and lay down to rest against Jon’s cheek.

“But it don’t matter. As long as you’ll be here, I’ll be here with you.”

Jon returned his fond smile, tried to put as much of what he felt as he might into it, into his voice, knowing he wouldn’t ever find the words to say it all the way it deserved to be said.

“Thank you.”

Tormund leaned in then, quite by habit, but stopped short of Jon’s mouth meeting his. Asking for permission; prolonging the moment. Hot breath was hitting Jon’s lips, their nose tips almost brushing, and he shuddered against Tormund’s chest - desire tightening his abdomen, want flaring in his veins. He tugged at the curls in the back of Tormund’s neck, willing him to close the gap between them, and sank into the slow kiss; scratchy around the edges, but gorgeously soft and warm where it mattered. Tormund’s lips parted for Jon’s tongue, strong arms folding around his waist to pull him closer, lifting Jon’s heels off the ground.

A small moment, really, a taste of eternity in his messed up, ever-changing, loosely-threaded world. And yet, a welcome anchor, his sanity reborn, his shaking hands worshipped to calm, his love safe in his arms, if only just for now.

All the gold in the world could not pay for this.

**Author's Note:**

> its really been almost exactly a year since ive last posted something on here, this audacity...
> 
> anyway, i do not understand how yall are sitting around shipping jon with his actual cousin or his actual aunt (regardless of other options - like, really yall? really?) when tormund is RIGHT THERE downright in LOVE with him and also all the damn “dragon-born loves those kissed by fire” jokes literally THROW themselves at you; @ asoiaf fandom for gods sake develop some semblance of taste, sack all the heteros !!! christ
> 
> none of them deserve rights except for braime on its best days I SAID what I said
> 
> on that note, it was so interesting trying to find alternatives for the word “hell” bc they don’t have a concept of that. I fucking love high fantasy. wow
> 
> also ? they both ? have a thing ? for the other’s hair ??? it’s terrible, leave me alone to wail!


End file.
